


Beyond Language

by Miss M (missm)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-09
Updated: 2011-05-09
Packaged: 2017-10-19 05:18:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/197319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is a strange thing, what exists between them: there's no word for it, really, but then again, no word is needed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beyond Language

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tetley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tetley/gifts).



> Written for Tetley as a thanks for her generous donation in the help_pakistan auction. Many thanks to my betas, Kelly and The Real Snape.

December has arrived, turning Hogsmeade village into a world of contrasts: dark streets and lit windows, cold air pierced by the smoke from warm bodies, red-and-green Christmas decorations against stark, white snow. Wilhelmina's hands are almost frozen inside her mittens; she pauses to breathe at them, stamping the snow from her boots, before pushing the door open.

The Hog's Head is dark as always, even more different now from The Three Broomsticks, which is filled with light and people and holiday cheer. Wilhelmina squints, looking for signs of life in the shadowed corners.

"Hullo?" she calls. "Aberforth?"

Something bumps into her; she gives a start, then laughs softly. "Hi, girl," she mutters, stroking the goat's head. "Gave me a fright, you did."

The goat bleats, pushing her muzzle against Wilhelmina's thigh. Taking the hint, she produces an apple from her pocket and holds it out. The goat picks it out of her hand with practiced ease, proceeding to munch at the fruit with great and obvious relish. Wilhelmina pats her back, waiting for Aberforth.

At last he appears from the cellar, a box of Firewhisky floating in the air behind him. He shuts the door and places the box on the floor behind the counter, then comes over to Wilhelmina. They hug.

"Is this the one?" Wilhelmina asks, pointing at the goat, who's now nosing around at the floor in search of escaped bits of apple. "She appears to be limping a little."

Aberforth nods. "It's Daisy. She doesn't seem to be in much pain, but there's a strange lump on her left hind leg. I don't like it at all."

"Well, let's have a look, then," says Wilhelmina, glancing around. "It's awfully dark in here, though."

"We'll take her upstairs," says Aberforth, pointing his wand at the door. "The pub's closed. I only left the door open because I knew you were coming."

Deciding against Levitation for fear of scaring the goat, they carry Daisy upstairs and into Aberforth's bathroom. Wilhelmina knows that most people object to keeping goats indoors; they should have seen this, she thinks as she kneels on the floor to inspect Daisy's leg. Shocking, it would be to them, dirty, although many of those same people have no qualms about rats and dogs. Goats are clever, and Aberforth's are clean and well-cared-for. Yet Wilhelmina knows from experience how much context matters to some people, context and custom.

The lump is about half the size of a Knut, and Daisy starts and bleats when Wilhelmina prods it. Nothing dangerous, she decides at last, at least not for the time being. Relieved, she stands up and washes her hands.

"An abscess," she says to Aberforth, who's been watching the examination with a worried look on his face. "An infection. I'll write down a couple of Potions you can give her; they're easy to procure. Send me an Owl if they don't work, and I'll come back."

"Thanks," he says, his voice gruff but grateful. "I'd appreciate that." He pauses. "Stay for a glass, will you?"

Wilhelmina accepts. She usually does.

 

~~~

 

Each of them with a glass of Firewhisky, they sit next to each other in front of the fire. No need to talk much -- the silence between them is familiar, comforting. Wilhelmina thinks of animals, of the way they can find comfort in each other, communicating without words. Language can be so superfluous, sometimes, even dangerous, muddling the waters when bodies should speak for themselves. It suits her well that this man, her oldest friend, is of the same sort as she: the blunt one, whose thoughts are not always easily translated into sentences.

She remembers the day they first met; she remembers herself, a shy thirteen-year-old who wasn't close to any of her housemates, but who wanted to make use of her first Hogsmeade weekend nonetheless. Walking alone through the streets, Muggleborn eyes wide with wonder, when suddenly a bleating noise caught her attention.

Following the bleating, she soon found the house from which it was coming: a dingy old building, apparently a pub. Not a place where Wilhelmina had any business to be, but the goat who was standing outside, poking a deserted bag of chips, made her forget all of that.

She was about to touch the goat's white head when a brusque voice made her start.

"Hey!" The man had appeared around the corner; with his long red hair and bushy eyebrows, he reminded Wilhelmina a little bit of Professor Dumbledore. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing! I mean, nothing wrong," said Wilhelmina defensively, drawing her hand back. "I just wanted to pet your goat. She's so lovely."

The man relaxed. "You can see straight away it's a she, then?" he asked. "Well, that's more than I would expect from those young pranksters who normally hang around here. Some of them have given my Nancy a hard time, to tell you the truth. I'm actually surprised that she didn't flee when she saw you coming."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know," said Wilhelmina softly. Then, because she was feeling braver now, she added, "May I pet her, though? I promise I'll be gentle."

The man huffed a laugh. "If she'll let you."

Sure enough, Nancy had allowed Wilhelmina's reverent touch. And the next month, and the next month after that, Wilhelmina came back to pet the goat, and to talk to the man, whose name was Aberforth and who was fond of animals, although suspicious of humans. The third or four time, he invited her in for a Butterbeer. Later, when she was old enough, for a Firewhisky.

They've never spent long periods of time together, Wilhelmina reflects as she glances over to where Aberforth is sitting, staring into the fire. It's always been these short encounters, mostly here, occasionally at the various places she's lived. Perhaps that is the key to why they get along so well.

Apart from her, he's lonely. She knows this. Albus Dumbledore is his brother, but no one would ever think so; the two of them haven't been seen together for decades. Wilhelmina doesn't know what's wrong between the two of them, and she doesn't want to ask. Aberforth likes to guard his grudges, and heaven knows Wilhelmina is no stranger to broken family ties.

There was a time, she thinks, when she was angry with the world, with herself and her lot in life. Not now, though. Animals, friendship, and the occasional fling: it's all she needs, or even wants. Women come and go, they have since she first fell in lust at eighteen. Her work, her friends, the sight of a unicorn foal taking its first step -- those are the joys that remain.

Those are the things she loves, if love implies faithfulness, steadiness, depth. And this, she thinks, looking at him, this is the way she loves Aberforth Dumbledore, no matter how grouchy he can be, how sad.

At length she yawns, putting her glass down. "Want me to spend the night?"

He glances up at her, quickly, almost shyly. "If you'd like to." He clears his throat. "You're welcome to, is what I mean."

Wilhelmina smiles. Their armchairs are close enough for her to place a hand on his arm. "It's been a long time since I saw you last, Abe."

"Hmph," he acknowledges. A moment passes. "Who's taking care of your beasts?"

"I have an apprentice now," Wilhelmina tells him, gently taking his glass from him and putting it on the table. "She's very trustworthy."

"Hmph," says Aberforth again. "And pretty, I can imagine?"

"And pretty," Wilhelmina confirms, moving her hand from his arm to his knee. "But awfully young."

When he turns to look at her, she touches his cheek with her other hand, as gently as she's ever petted any of his goats. A nudge forward, a tilting of heads... And then she's leaning in to kiss him, and after a moment, he sighs and lets her.

It is a strange thing, what exists between them: there's no word for it, really, but then again, no word is needed. It's not so much about giddy passion, or raw want -- things that Wilhelmina has experienced with women only, and Aberforth, she suspects, with no one. It's about the silent comfort, the honest companionship, the need to let bodies do what words can't.

It's indeed been a while, but Aberforth smells and tastes the same as always: gruff man, stale tea, old habits. She slides her tongue into his mouth, and he gives a momentary tremble in her arms. "Hush, now," she murmurs between kisses, stroking his shoulders, his back. "It's all right, it's been a while, but it's all right; there now, that's a good chap --"

As always, she is the one to lead him to the bedroom, and as always, Aberforth makes a point of complaining about how he's too old for this. That done, he lets her push him down on the bed, where they undress each other, garment by garment. Hands touch skin, mouths meet, consoling, familiar. They kiss and stroke, again and again, gently where gentle is needed, hard when hard is called for. It's a repertoire of caresses accumulated over decades, employed when the need arises, a silent agreement of two people who know each other beyond words.

Afterwards, she fetches extra blankets for the night, while Aberforth lights their pipes. Legs casually entwined, they smoke in silence, watching the bright moonlight trace patterns in the dark.


End file.
